String Theory

Chapter 7

Peter can't tell them about the ID.

He wants to. So badly. He's been pacing for ten minutes, glaring at the small plastic square that's resting on the bed. Occasionally, he snatches it up, rereads the lettering - PETER BENJAMIN PARKER - and then throws it back down on the bed, huffing with frustration.

"It doesn't make sense, " he says, pausing for a moment to look up at the ceiling. "You told me that I'm Tony Stark!"

"I assumed you were Tony," Karen corrects. "There was no way to confirm it until now. Now you're sure."

"I'm not sure!" Peter's voice arches, and he throws his hands up. "I'm really— super, very not sure, Karen! I mean— you thought I was Tony. Bucky thought that I was Steve, and this ID says I'm Peter, and I don't even know who any of them are! Who am I?!"

Karen's response is gentle. "I'm not sure. Who does your heart say you are?"

God, that was cheesy. Peter stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs heavily. "My.. heart... isn't answering."

"Maybe your friends can help. Are you going to tell them?"

"No," he answers quickly. "No, I can't."

"Why?"

"Cause — I don't know, what if they're not actually up to anything good?" His voice drops to a loud whisper. "What if they're only helping me because they think I'm Tony? If they find out I'm not, they might kill me."

Karen hums softly. "That's true. You should hide the ID, then."

"Yeah, that's— that's a good idea." He grabs the ID off the bed. He opens the top drawer and stuffs it under the stack of shirts on the left side. Before closing it, he tugs a sweatshirt off the top of the pile. His current hoodie is speckled with blood from 018's attack, so he gently pulls it over his head, careful to avoid the bandages on his neck and hand. The fresh sweatshirt is once again, too large, and STARK INDUSTRIES is printed across the front of it. It looks well-loved, and it's comfy. Oversized is the best size.

When he returns to the living room, Bucky's sprawled out on the couch, flicking through the TV channels, while Eggsy's in the kitchen, rummaging through the pantry and crunching loudly. Must not have been any snacks on the plane. The TV's only playing old HBO reruns and Orthus announcements, so when he sees Peter, Bucky tosses the remote down with a frustrated sigh, muttering, "Television is so dramatic." From the kitchen, Eggsy hums his agreement through a mouthful of goldfish crackers. Once he swallows with a wince, he replies, "Damn right it is. Nothin' like a good movie— shows are slow, mate. I ain't got the patience for that shit."

Peter sinks into the couch, grabbing up a Stark tablet that's on the table next to it. "There's movies in the drawer by the TV," he says absently, scrolling through the digital copy of the newspaper that Bucky had brought home. While he's reading, Bucky gets up to go through the DVD collection, and Eggsy flops down in the middle of the couch, munching at his bowl of goldfish.

The article is full of vague scientific jargon, most of which Peter can interpret. It reports the current known worldwide temperatures, and then follows them with the same data from the past three minor solar flares. The current temperatures are fifteen degrees or more lower than the known flares. Peter hums quietly and tucks this information away for later.

Bucky emerges from the drawer, scowling at a DVD. "The Empire Strikes Back," he reads aloud, and flips the case over. "What's this about?"

"Star Wars is the shit," Eggsy says, a smile tugging at his features. "Have you not seen it? Put it on, guv."